


Imagine

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Dear Anon... [1]
Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Bottom!Wade, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Wade likes to be pinned down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **This was inspired by some lovely anon hate I've been getting on my tumblr blog. I'm gonna make a little series dedicated to this person, who was so disgusted at the idea that Wade is canonically sexually submissive that they hounded my inbox for several days. Bless.**

Imagine Peter pinning Wade naked to the mattress, then webbing him in place.

“Well hey, sailor. Buy a girl a drink first -”

Another wadge slaps over his eyes. Wade’s senses are abruptly reduced to four. His others sharpen to compensate, of course. Wade’s a trained mercenary. No one would expect any less.

What they might not expect is this: Wade keening loudly at the whir from the refilling webshooters, which is the only other sound in the room bar his fast-paced breath.

***

Muscles bulge as he struggles. He’s not even trying to escape - just to reach for Peter, yearning to anchor himself in this isolated sea of sensation. There’s simultaneously too much touch - sheets glide against his back, while the tacky sealant glues his arms above his head and his legs painfully wide apart, clinging to the topography of his scars - and not nearly enough. Wade’s marooned. And while he could place Peter if he honed his hearing, attuned himself to the patter of that little spider-heart, in his current state that’s impossible. Any attempt to concentrate makes his breath wheeze a little closer to hyperventilation.

He wants him. Needs him. But he’s entirely helpless, and can take only what Peter gives.

What Peter gives is a single finger, dragging along the inside of Wade’s thigh. It maintains a constant pressure. Maddening. Slow. Almost automaton, in its single-minded determination to make him squeal.

It sweeps along muscle and bone, mapping Wade in a single neverending line. Wade’s likes to show off his model-long legs (especially in a miniskirt) but right now they’re his worst enemy. How long’s it going to take Peter to reach his destination at this rate?

Wade squirms into the touch and away. His moan is ragged and high, and his twitching cock gushes silvery pre-ejaculate. Below it, in the crux of his clenching buttocks, his hole, still sloppy from their last romp, all but _throbs._ The internal muscles clamp on nothing in their desperation to have Peter inside him. A little of Peter’s cum squelches out, trickling to stain the sheets, and Wade’s so starved for touch that he can imagine that the feather-light dribble is another of Peter’s fingers, an infernal tease that sets every nerve ending alight.

The aim of the game is that Wade’s gotta stay still for at least five minutes. This - driving back as much as he can in restraints, trying to fuck himself on that phantom finger and wailing desperately when he fails - is not ‘still’. But Peter supposes he deserves a reward, if only for looking so damn gorgeous spread out beneath him.

“Here,” he murmurs. He sets a single gloved digit on Wade’s perineum, an inch away from where Wade wants it.

He might as well have punched him. Wade jerks, entire body quivering, and he pushes _into_ the restraints rather than away. He forces his legs into a split in his eagerness to have Peter between them.

“P-please, please, Spidey, please.....”

Sighing, as if he’s doing him an immense favor, Peter acquiesces. The finger slips in, glove easily lubricated by the amount of creamy cum still lacing Wade’s hole. That cum’s held in place by surface tension. When Peter breaches, a wet trail warmed by Wade’s fever-hot internals slithers down his wrist.

Wade himself, who flowers beautifully to the inward press, sighs so loudly that Peter instinctively checks to see if he’s collapsed a lung. “More,” he whines, rocking his pelvis to encourage Peter further inside him. His hands hang limp in their bonds, and Peter can tell that he’s got his eyes clamped shut under the blindfold, surrendering to him entirely. “More, more, more....”

But Peter’s already been far too kind, letting Wade’s ass have a single finger to suckle on. His mercy stops now.

He curls that digit, nail cresting Wade’s prostate. His reward comes with the squeeze and splay of the meaty thighs that rest on either side of his head, the scars beneath the surface jittering like fish in a pool filled with intermittent electric charge. It only takes three presses in the end. Three little presses, not a single touch to his cock. Then Wade’s sputtering and sobbing and spurting seed across his chest, contracting so tightly that the finger of any lesser superhero would’ve bust at the joint.

He begs for “more” the whole time. Peter doesn’t give it to him, preferring to draw out this sumptuous torture. But he imagines it. Imagines hooking Wade’s ankles, breaking the webbing, and folding him up over himself. The mercenary may be bulky, but he’s more flexible than Peter - which is nothing to scoff at. He could take it. Peter could web his legs behind his head, making Wade an immobile pretzel, and pile-drive his undefended ass until it runs sticky with their leavings...

Next time.

He pulls away. His finger lingers with the knuckle tugging at Wade’s rim. Wade clenches when he feels it retreat, anything to keep Peter inside. But he’s too wet, too shuddery and helpless. He whimpers when Peter’s fingertip pops out of him, hole a soft cream-smeared gape.

All of that rich, scarred muscle Wilson prides himself on? Useless once you ply an orgasm out of him. Wade turns limp and boneless as any other man.

But speaking of limp... Peter has something straining at the front of his spidersuit that is anything but.

“Open that stupid mouth of yours, Wilson,” he orders, crawling forwards on the bed and shoving Wade’s shoulders down when he wriggles. He steers his cock out his fly, and knows from the flare of Wade’s nostrils and the flutter of a tongue over chapped lips that Deadpool scents his precum. “Let’s put it to use.”

**Author's Note:**

> **I hope you enjoyed it! Chanelling my natural spite and pettiness into creativity is my legit favorite pastime. Tell me what you thought in the comments? x**


End file.
